The First Time
by Eisblume
Summary: It's the first time for Severus. He thought he could do it easily, but it's harder than he expected.


**Disclaimer:** Nothing's mine, not even the plot, and I'm obviously not making any money with it.

**A/N: **This is an authorized translation of a German story written by _Vistin_. You can find the original here: h t t p : / / w w w . f a n f i c t i o n . n e t /s/3007122/1/DasersteMal.

Comments welcome!

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**The First Time**

"Oh, Severus. It is nice that you are here. I have been waiting for you. Would you like some wine?"

The declining gesture was very diffident and seemed dignified. He had practised it often. But the Dark Lord ignored it and handed the seventeen year old boy a christal glass filled with a nearly black fluid.

"Drink. It is an excellent wine, and you will need the refreshment."

Severus nodded submissively and took the glass. Like a reflex, his mind unreeled spells to split the glass and its contents into their constituent parts, analysed them and uncovered any dangers that might come from that direction. He found nothing, so he lifted the glass and drank. The wine tasted almost sour, but had a velvety note that belied that impression.

"Do you know Kim Lickpau? Yesterday, he tried to abduct the minister's head secretary. Only tried, mind you."

"How is it possible to fail kidnapping an eighty year old witch?" Severus asked, giving his voice an arrogant, ironic tone. The lipless mouth of the person facing him distorted into something that – on a human being – probabably would have been a smile.

"A fascinating question, isn't it? And as yet, no-one could answer that question to my satisfaction. Especially since this was Lickpau's third blunder in this month alone."

The conversational tone brought Severus to attention. All his senses were tuned only to HIM, his gestures, his words, his thoughts.

"What would you do with him, my boy?" Voldemort's tone was casual, with a hint of benevolence.

"Kill him." The answer came without hesitation, the perfect image of implicitness and coldness, while at the same time other mechanisms sealed away Severus's innermost thoughts into the darkest recesses of his mind. The Dark Lord's pale face twitched into a diabolical grin, and something akin to triumph shone in his eyes.

"Good," he hissed and placed a long-fingered, white hand on Severus's shoulder.

oOoOoOo

How he had come back to the dormitory, he wasn't sure. It wasn't until the door slammed shut that he became aware of his surroundings again. He was freezing cold, even though beads of sweat were forming on his back.

He was shivering.

Countless thoughts were whirling around his head, but he couldn't quite grasp any of them. The room seemed to be spinning, black dots were flickering before his eyes, and breathing was a struggle. He felt dizzy and thought he would lose his balance as suddenly everything stopped.

Absolutely everthing. The room had stopped spinning, his heart had stopped beating, his thoughts were frozen before his mind's eye and showed him clearly what had happened.

He had killed someone.

He just reached a wash-basin before he threw up. He tasted bile and sour wine. He knees buckled, and though he tried to steady himself with his hands gripping the basin, he sank to the cold stone floor. The shivering got worse; cold sweat was running down his back.

Again, the day played in his head. He was surprised how much he knew about Lickpau. He had only seen him twice. Had they ever talked? However loose their contact may have been before, now they were bonded forever: victim and murderer.

Murderer – how strange that word sounded.

He had known for a long time that it would happen some day. Since he had joined the deatheaters, he had known that one day he would have to kill. And it had been easy, really. He felt queasy again, but slowly he was regaining his strength. He pulled himself up and took several deep breaths to get the dizziness under control. He felt still nauseous, so he stuck a finger in his throat to get rid of the rest of the wine.

An empty stomach felt good, even though it made the shivering worse.

With a wobbly movement of his wand he cleaned the wash-basin and washed his face with cold water. His mind was still whirling from the events of the past hours, but his body seemed to overcome the dizzy spell slowly. He summoned fresh clothes from his wardrobe and folded the cloak that he had taken off as tidily as usual to place it on a stool. But then suddenly a strange kind of disgust seized him, and he ignited the garment.

The water in the shower was too hot, but he only realised it when a new dizzy spell forced him to the floor. Sitting there with his back leaning against the tiles he felt better. Only the cramp that tighened in his chest got worse and worse. An indescribable and unbearable feeling of guilt and disgust, condensed into a gigantic stone that seemed to crush him.

The hot water didn't do his wand any good, the polish was beginning to peel off, but today of all days he really didn't care. He dragged the tip of his wand along his left arm. By now, he had perfected this spell. It didn't sever any sinews or muscles, it just cut through skin and blood vessels and inflamed the nerve cords. The blood was already leaving streaks in the water when the pain reached his brain. He moaned softly and grimaced; his arm was burning like fire, but the tightness in his chest wouldn't vanish. He tried to concentrate completely on the physical pain, but it wasn't enough. This one sentence, this one word was still echoing in his head, the knot in him was still tightening, getting heavier and still more crushing. Watching the blood was not helping this time.

He had killed someone, that was worse than everything he had done before, even though it hadn't been an innocent man. It had been a man who had killed several times himself and who deserved to die more than once. But no matter how often he told himself that, it didn't make it better. On the contrary, he could see an even more horrible picture in his mind's eye: What would he do if someone ordered him to kill an innocent person? Maybe even a friend? His stomach convulsed again, but he couldn't throw up any more. He sagged against the wall. The wound on his arm closed again without making him feel better. He lay curled up on the floor of the shower room, the rush of the draining water sounding in his ears. The foggy air made it difficult to breathe, but at least he was warm again.

His thoughts were becoming hazy, as if he would lose conciousness. Only one spell was stuck in his head, very clear. It virtually presented itself to him, was so tempting, so easy. A solution, a solution for everything. He could master this spell, that he knew now. Though his first use of this spell had brought him to this point, only to repeat it offered a way out. But would it work? Could one use it on oneself? He could just try it out, like he had tried out so many other things. He turned his wand against himself. It was a little difficult to concentrate, but he found the focus, found his target …

A nameless pain shot through him. Was this how it felt? But he hadn't spoken the spell, hadn't even thought it yet. He heard himself scream, and this scream told him that he wasn't dying, even if it felt like it.

For a moment, his head became clear again. Regulus was standing in the doorway to the shower room, glowering, his wand still pointed at Severus.

"Do you really think you can just scarper like that? That it wouldn't have any consequences? You can't be that egoistical and stupid!" he yelled at Severus.

"Get your bearings," he added in a more quiet voice and threw him a towel.


End file.
